


Taste It On My Breath

by mithrel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Introspection, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 18:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: They make love very differently.





	Taste It On My Breath

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this, completely and entirely, on being reminded that Melissa Etheridge exists, specifically the song "Angels Would Fall," specifically-specifically the line "I will not look upon your face / I will not touch upon your grace / Your ecclesiastic skin."

Sometimes Crowley is almost afraid to touch him, hands ghosting over flawless skin, convinced that this is not for such profane hands as his, that every contact is somehow dimming the…all right, the _ineffable_ light beneath his hands, that his sin is contaminating the flesh beneath him with every brush of his fingers.

Other times, something approaching a madness takes over him and he’s filled with the compulsion to _mark,_ to make a map of bruises and bite marks over thighs, shoulders, and chest, to prove that Aziraphale doesn’t belong to Heaven, doesn’t belong to Earth, belongs to nobody but _him._

Aziraphale doesn’t rebuke him, either way.

***

Aziraphale is always _soft_ with him, always gentle, no matter how many times Crowley spits “I won’t _break,_ Angel!” no matter how much he teases and taunts him.

He never loses control, always focused on his preparations, always careful not to go too fast or to thrust too deep.

Almost worse than that, though, are the words. He’s learned not to protest, not to contradict him, since all that will do is interrupt the proceedings for a stern lecture, about how _yes,_ Crowley is good, _no,_ the fact that he’s a demon doesn’t matter, and, well, he can do without that.

So all he does is grumble softly as Aziraphale whispers “Beautiful,” or “You’re so _good._ "

And it’s ridiculous. Not the praise of his looks; Crowley knows he’s attractive–easier to tempt people that way. But no matter how many times Aziraphale says it, he knows that he’s not _good,_ not _nice,_ or any of the other things that spill from Aziraphale’s lips when he comes.

It’s just the way Aziraphale is.

Crowley thinks, sometimes, he could hate him for that.


End file.
